Crepuscule
by Pretty.Odd
Summary: Bakura is the bouncer at a club in New York City. Marik is an idiot [and a college student with a terrible looking fake ID] Thiefshipping


_I'm trying to get the hang of writing these two, their banter is ridiculously fun so I wanted to practice and this little piece is the result. _

_Enjoy and please review!_

_Crepuscule _

He's erratic, enraptured in light-headedness, body bouncing back and forth. Alternating between standing on his toes and balancing on the balls of his feet. His vision is a little blurry around the edges and the slow, delicious feeling of lethargy has crept into his bones. Warm, heavy air licks at his bare forearms and the background noise in his head feels unusually light and low. He thinks that he might be dancing but he's not entirely sure; all of his movements feel purposeful and graceful.

"Marik, you fucking idiot! You knocked over the rest of the Jack!"

The dull roar of music and laugher clutters to a halt. Everyone in the crowded dorm room gathers around the broken bottle like it's a fallen friend (which in a way it is). A few of them even hang their heads in solemn mourning. Marik halts his nimble motions (drunken swaying) and rests a gold-clad arm on his hip.

"I did no such thing!" he indignantly announces, hoarse words falling together in a tangled heap. He's trying (and spectacularly failing) to point an accusing finger at the boy who insulted him. The room grumbles in uniform waves, Marik faintly thinks he can feel the low vibration under his skin.

"He's plastered! Let's just get to the club before he breaks something else." The tone is teasing, intent only in getting the group to leave the building instead of insulting.

Another wave of noise erupts, this time in affirmation. Then, there's a flurry of uncoordinated movement. The room is quickly and messily put back together. The broken bottle of Jack Daniels is carelessly thrown in the garbage and shot glasses are being stacked on a bookshelf. Marik watches with a hazy smile.

Once the ephemeral clean up is complete, the drunken students begin to pile out of the room. The Resident Advisors have already completed their rounds and the rowdy bunch began their pre-game immediately afterwards. Marik had thought, before he marathoned three shots in one minute, and before he let half the room do body shots off of him, that it would be difficult to avoid being caught drinking. He's heard rumors of RAs being strict and unforgiving, but his friends assured him that it would be easy.

In the end, the Egyptian had allowed himself a momentary lapse of control (which definitely had led to his many momentary lapses in judgment later). Walking (stumbling) past the security guard and out of the building is an awkward and embarrassing rush of excitement. Marik thinks he likes the danger of potentially being caught. Once on the street, his friends laugh into the smoggy, city air. It's a hectic and breathless sound that seems almost louder than the sputter of taxis and cars chugging through the night.

The walk to the club is terribly long, Marik opens his mouth, complaint balancing on the tip of his tongue, when he realizes that the night is casting a lively light on the high-rises around him. He'd never had such a breathtaking city at his feet before, and suddenly he feels rich. The opulence of New York is ethereal; he'd never once dreamed he'd be privileged enough to experience such a brand new world. If only his father could see him now.

He bumps into about three people between his dorm and the club, slurring a mumbled apology each time. His friends finally halt after four more blocks. The outside of the club is dark, lit only by a single streetlight, and smells like stale tobacco. Music, like an instrumental heart, is thrumming and beating from within.

"You guys all have your IDs?" Marik's roommate mutters lowly, pulling out a plastic card from his wallet. Everyone nods, already lining up to be checked by the bouncer.

A faint pang of anxiety breaks through Marik's drunken daze, sobering him slightly. He had just received his fake ID a few days prior, after tearing open the envelope he proudly slid it into his wallet. It had been his ticket to freedom.

But every time he had pictured going to a club he had never considered the weight of reality, the difficulty of getting past security. He knew women had an easier time of getting into clubs, with their breasts and everything, so he decided to wear his most revealing outfit, desperately hoping that the bouncer would be at least bisexual.

He watches, biting his lip, as his friends get let in one by one. He is not paying any notice to the bouncer until only two people (women in tight spandex and high heels) separate him from the entrance. The man is not at all what Marik had been expecting. The crepuscular light emitting from within the club makes him look ghostly pale. He's shrouded in a midnight black trench coat; white hair sticks out from underneath a black beanie. Hard eyes that appear to be pure-pupil scrutinize each identification presented.

The two women in front of Marik look at the white haired man from underneath their heavily made-up eyelashes. They straighten their posture like show dogs and toy with the ends of his hair.

"Hey, cutie," the first one, a blonde, purrs. Her voice is high and coarse, obviously already affected by alcohol. "I've never seen you at this club before." The bouncer's face is tight, unreadable except for the pulled skin around his eyes indicating annoyance.

"IDs?" his voice is silk, Marik thinks he can detect the hint of an accent.

The other woman, a brunette, bumps her hip against his friskily, "You're not just gonna let two pretty girls in? We'll make it worth your while." The innuendo is blatant, the women look predatory and Marik feels more blood rush to his face, this time not due to intoxication. The women are watching the bouncer impatiently and pressing their chests out with more vigor than before. The ghostly man brings his hands up to massage his temples. A slow, hazy thought appears in the forefront of Marik's mind; the man has nice hands.

"Allow me to repeat myself, because it seems like you did not hear me the first time, may I see your identification?" British, Marik realizes, the man definitely has a British accent. The women look as if they've been popped; their postures slouch as they pull out their IDs.

"Your loss." One of them mumbles, to Marik most girls sound the same and in his current state their shrill voices seem to confirm his theory. The bouncer studies their identifications for a minute then a slow, cocky smirk appears as he pockets the plastic cards.

"Sorry ladies," he does not sound apologetic at all. Marik thinks he sounds gleeful. "But I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The women glare at him but stumble away - heels creating a clicking cacophony - grumbling about their tactic usually working. Caught up in the amusing display before him, Marik does not realize it is his turn until the bouncer shifts his steady gaze towards him. Marik gulps.

"Hello there Mr. Bouncer, sir." Marik cringes. The words were pushed out of his mouth by his anxiety. His survival instincts seem to severely drop while he's under the influence, a thought that worries him. The bouncer quirks an eyebrow then unashamedly looks him up and down. Marik suddenly feels ridiculous in his midriff revealing shirt and tight, black jeans. He thrusts his ID at the man.

"Here is my identification! Marik Ishtar; 21 years old!" He laughs in an effervescent way that, he hopes, will dispel the man's belief that he is underage. The man doesn't seem to be convinced but he does seem more amused than he was before. He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, leaving only his thumbs visible.

"Well, Marik Ishtar," Marik didn't know his name could sound so sensual or that the accented lilt on the 'r' could enrapture him so completely. His mouth is dry. "It seems that I cannot let you in." His voice is teasing. Up close his eyes are almond-brown.

"Excuse me?" Marik, in his drunken state, decides that indignity and denial might get him inside quicker than outright admission. "It says it right there on my ID that I am of legal drinking age!"

"Oh, on here?" The bouncer holds up the ID with a half-bitten smirk, "Right on top of your home address, I see, '69 Tomb Lane, Somewhere in Egypt'?"

Marik growls. He thought he had been clever when he ordered the ID. (Note: he had been _drunk_ when he ordered the ID). His friends had found the fake address hilarious (his friends had been plastered as well) and Marik had assumed bouncers would guess it were just an address in Egypt (he guessed this after five more shots).

"Yes, that is indeed my home address." Marik is too far into his lie already and he refuses to back down. This bouncer seems entirely too smug, the drunk Egyptian is determined to bring him down a few pegs on the humility scale.

"And I'm supposed to believe that," he flips over the ID, "your only driving restriction is 'being too sexy'?"

Marik shifts his eyes, his friends are sending questioning hand signals at him and flipping off the bouncer behind his back. Marik has to get in. He truly hopes what he's about to do won't make him look like even more of an ass. (He's wrong in his hope).

"If you don't believe the card, then just look at me."

Marik isn't sure how he managed to twist his voice to sound husky and 'come hither,' but the message comes across quite nicely. It helps that he's still fuzzy, likely not to remember his seductive tone the next morning, and that he has a bit of a narcissistic personality to begin with. The man appears surprised at the first forward statement out of the blond's mouth; he quickly hides his reaction behind an impassive stare.

"I've looked at you, kid. And all I see is a nineteen year old with a big mouth."

Marik thought it would work. He was sure that he saw the man look at him appreciatively and thought he'd be able to distract him with an innuendo. For fucks sake, he turned away those girls without a second glance! Something in him, something primal that's closer to the surface now, (something that does not handle rejection well) snaps.

"Big mouth? What makes you so high and mighty? Just because you're standing in front of a big, stupid door doesn't mean you get to decide who goes in!" Marik vaguely hears a few drunken agreements shouted out behind him. He doesn't pay them much mind; instead he focuses on the sardonic man smirking before him. The bouncer's expression had remained essentially the same throughout Marik's drunken tantrum. He takes a cheeky step towards Marik (who sways slightly at their now close proximity) and swipes his tongue across his pale bottom lip.

"I believe that is precisely my job description." His voice has dropped an octave and blows across Marik's face like tobacco smoke. "And I've decided that you're too much of a brat to be let in." he says it like a challenge, toying briefly with a lock of Marik's blond hair before letting go and stepping back. His posture now betrays none of the previous teasing, only stony perplexity.

Marik clenches his hands, feeling his fingernails dig angry crescents into his palm. He is no child. He marches forward and feels a shiver originate from the base of his spine when he realizes that he's taller than the white haired man by an inch.

"I say _you're_ the brat. What, are you threatened by the first person to argue with you?"

Instead of cowering, like Marik had hoped, the man snorts. He bumps his hip teasingly against Marik's.

"You're hardly my first," he drolls slyly, "but you are the most stubborn kid I've had to deal with."

Marik isn't sure how it happens but he's gripping the man's bicep tightly, arguing mere inches from his face.

"Well, I'm sorry that I don't respect your authority as a glorified door man!"

Before the bouncer has a chance to retort, a blond man sticks his head out of the doorway.

"Bakura!" He shouts in a thick, Brooklyn accent, "What the hell, man! We've got a huge line, need me to take care of this kid for ya?"

The bouncer (Bakura, Marik's flurried brain helpfully supplies) looks slightly ruffled at being interrupted. He shifts his eyes over to Marik briefly before huffing and calling out, "just take over, Joey, I need a bloody smoke." Bakura snatches his arm back and pushes past him, digging through his jacket pockets, presumably for his packet of cigarettes.

The other man, Joey, shoots Bakura a questioning look but the agitated man brushes it off, leaning against the wall of the building next door. He finally managed to pull out a cigarette from a metal case and expertly light it.

Marik's body is still thrumming with the anticipation of a fight. Or something else entirely, he thinks as he watches Bakura inhale. Nothing else matters but the slight pull of Bakura's lips as he takes in smoke. The man's shoulders are slumped against the brick wall, hips canted outward.

Marik watches him exhale. The smoke mists around him like ghostly tendrils of his crazed white hair. The casual flick of his long fingers ashing the cigarette rattles his mind further. He wonders if those hands are as dexterous as they seem.

"ID, kid?" there's a distinct lack of indignation from the Egyptian at the innocent question; the word isn't as insulting as it had been a few minutes ago.

"Uh…" he stutters blankly, eyes occupied elsewhere, "Give me a moment."

He's unsteady as he barrels forward. Bakura notices his approach but does nothing to heed his arrival. When Marik is finally in front of the man again, Bakura's entire posture is curved towards him like the bow of a violin. His smile is sharp and Marik, somewhere in his drunken, muddled mind, thinks that he'd like to be gutted by it.

"Since you're no longer on duty as the door police," Marik faintly laughs at his own jab then sobers, remembering that he's supposed to be intimidating. He continues in a rougher voice, "I'd like my ID back."

Bakura hums in acknowledgement but favors one more drag over answering. He exhales his words with the remainder of his cigarette, "it's mine." Marik huffs and chokes slightly on smoke, to which Bakura barks a laugh.

"If you could read, you'd see that it's actually _mine."_ Marik makes a valiant attempt at stealing the plastic card from the bouncer's pocket but is intercepted by a sharp, sinewy hand. Bakura grips Marik's hand tightly and brings it up to eye-level.

"Don't. Touch."

Now, Marik finds himself in an awkward situation. Because about twenty-five percent of him (the sober, self-protecting part) is scared, terrified actually, of the man before him. Bakura's almond shell eyes are slits and his face is screwed up into a dagger-sharp scowl. The uneasy end of it is, that the other seventy-five percent of him (the drunk, horny teenager part) is suddenly aroused and hyperaware of the bouncer's lithe body in juxtaposition to his own.

They're both breathing heavily; the lapel of the bouncer's coat is rough against Marik's face. Bakura's left leg is shoved between Marik's and brushing dangerously close to his crotch.

Marik does something rash. He leans forward even further, mouth against the other man's ear and delighting in the sharp gasp from Bakura.

"What if I want to?"

Bakura lets go of his hand and dips it below his waist. The hand wanders, running teasingly over the zipper of Marik's obscenely tight jeans before resting on the swell of his ass. The white haired man groans slightly and bites at his tanned neck, licking slightly at the shell of Marik's ear.

"Go inside." It takes Marik a moment to realize that Bakura had stepped back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye.

"What?" he eloquently replies. The Egyptian reaches behind him into his back pocket, still warm from Bakura's hand, where his ID now resides.

"Go inside," Bakura repeats slowly, flattening out his hair and re-buttoning his coat.

The front of Marik's body is cold and he's still painfully hard. He sputters, "but I—"

"This is a one time thing. Next time I see you, you'll need to offer me something in exchange." Bakura leers at him, dirty and evocative. Leaning forward one last time, he purrs, "until next time, Marik"

For a moment (one alluring, tempting moment) Marik thinks that Bakura is going to kiss him. Instead, he inhales a smoke ring, coughing and hacking as Bakura saunters and sniggers away.

_I hope the ending wasn't too abrupt; I might pick this piece back up later!_

_It was fun to write this and I hope you all enjoyed! _


End file.
